


Northern bard

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 2nd Age - Pre-Rings, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:11:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3745196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This poem (straight tied with "I lire formenya coireo") is a piece of folk-lore and represents the song of a minstrel of Northern tribes, by chance heard and written down by a Numenorean. This song is telling about the nearly magic power of poetic art , thanks to which a mortal man could stand a hard medieval  life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Northern bard

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Just listen awhile to a voice of a winter gale,  
The lay of the spring in the rustle of pine-trees old;  
Take up a lute, drive away the fog in the dale,  
Write down the runes on a wall with knife and charcoal.  
  
In feathery trickles the mist twines about my hair.  
I face the cold, do not fear a tiresome way.  
In voice of strings there flower patterns of flare,  
The truth does live in the lines of an ancient tale.  
  
Why must I fear? I am ice and silvery hoar.  
And never on earth could a sparklet burn down a rock.  
Like white-scaled dragons the snowy flurries roar.  
My shoulders bent have not the wings of the fog.  
  
Though I 'm not a god and my power is not in flame,  
And serpents of snowy whirls sweep away my trace.  
But Winter, the Queen of the dead, will not ever reign.  
I sing the glory of Spring and She does answer my praise.


End file.
